


that's cold, akaashi

by ThinkingCAPSLOCK



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Photographer, M/M, Photographer Bokuto, model akaashi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 19:52:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7770952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThinkingCAPSLOCK/pseuds/ThinkingCAPSLOCK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Would you want to go to an awards ceremony with me?"</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>As the night draws on, Akaashi Keiji finds himself grossly unprepared for Bokuto Koutarou.</p><p>sequel/same universe as <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/7160318">owlluminati confirmed</a>!</p>
            </blockquote>





	that's cold, akaashi

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is dedicated to chesally, who read it over, and all my friends who suffered me as i wrote it. :)

Akaashi hears the door open and close, the pad of Bokuto's feet across the floor - the sign he only has a few seconds left to pretend to be asleep. Bokuto, of course, has been up for nearly two hours: first to the gym, then a jog, then the shower, the same as every day. Akaashi, on the other, much better hand, has been up for two minutes, since Bokuto whistled through the halls on his way to get a drink of water. 

They both know he's awake, but Bokuto is kind enough to not speak until he sits on the edge of the bed.

"Morning," he says. Fingers brush Akaashi's hair (probably a huge mess) away from his closed eyes. "Sleep well?"

"Mm."

A laugh. "C'mon, Akaashi, I know you're more alert than that."

Akaashi rolls to the side, relenting, eyes dragging themselves open against the light from the window and the light from Bokuto. A halo of dust hangs above his just-spiked, just-washed hair. It hurts to look at, in his eyes and his chest. Akaashi squints and rubs his face. He can feel Bokuto's stare long before he makes eye contact.

"Do you do that like, on purpose?" he whispers. 

Akaashi, while half asleep, isn't the right kind of half asleep, and the response comes before he can stop it. "I'm just rubbing my eye, Bokuto."

Bokuto shakes his head. That wasn't what he was asking, not really. Akaashi knew that. He's just avoiding it this morning. He yawns and blinks, slow and weary. 

"So, Mr. Model," Bokuto asks, moving forwards from the pause in the conversation. "You awake enough to answer a question?"

"I haven't done anything _but_ answer questions since I got up." Akaashi holds back a smile as a whine builds in Bokuto's throat. It escapes as he throws his head back. His hands fly into the air.

"You know what I mean!!"

"I usually do," Akaashi replies, and he sits up, elbows on knees, hands balanced under his chin, and this time he is very much doing it on purpose. The slight head tilt into the light. The little smile (that he tries to keep professional, which is difficult on Bokuto's bed in Bokuto's apartment as Bokuto shuffles closer). "Ask away."

Bokuto doesn't ask - instead, he tilts his own head. Behind his eyes it's easy to see him lining up the shot. Akaashi knows the signs well. The way Bokuto's fingers twitch at his sides. His slow breath to calm them. The question hovers, a bubble of air in his body, his whole form tense with it. His exhale brings it forwards.

"Okay, can you like, stay there? Just for a minute? Please?"

"You're not going to get paid for this shot, Bokuto."

Bokuto's mouth says "okay" but his body coils into a spring, waiting, tension mounting, air thick with his anticipation. If Akaashi was more awake, he'd see how long Bokuto could go before the restless energy explodes into wild shouts, or gestures, or whatever Bokuto-style loudness it chooses. 

Luckily for Bokuto, Akaashi's still half asleep, and he's far too tired to stop the smile on his face from tugging wider and wider. "One minute, then I'm moving."

Before he's finished speaking, Bokuto's on his toes, launching to the main room where his camera rests. A screech as the door is thrown open against its will, a thud as he misses the turn and most likely jars his arm into the wall. Akaashi's never seen Bokuto react so fast before.

He holds the pose and starts counting to sixty. 

-

It's twenty minutes later over his second cup of coffee, legs tucked under a blanket on the couch, that Akaashi remembers Bokuto had a question.

"What did you want to ask me earlier?"

"Huh?" Bokuto peeks his head out from the kitchen, hands dripping wet from dishes. He pats them dry on a spare sweater thrown on the floor. He dodges around an open tripod before flopping on the couch beside Akaashi. It takes three chin taps before he slams a fist into a palm, eyes bright with memory. "Ah! Right! Would you want to go to an awards ceremony with me?"

Akaashi blinks. The coffee is suddenly awkward in his hands. His legs feel too long, and he shifts them under the blanket. It's the years, and years, of practice that keep his face neutral as his insides churn. He wishes he hadn't eaten anything. "Congratulations, Bokuto. I'm sorry, I didn't know you were up for an award. I'd love to go." 

The air is stagnant for a long moment. Bokuto breaks it with a guffaw of laughter that melts into a grin. "Me? No, no, I'm not up for the award! Geez, Akaashi, I would've told you immediately. Like I could keep a secret like that!" And he does it again, his new trademark - the lean in, the grin shifting as he inches closer, eyebrows lowering. "Were you worried you'd missed something?"

Akaashi doesn't move, barely blinks. It's easy, this close, to pick out the ambers in Bokuto's eyes, the particular arc of his eyebrows, the redder blotches across his nose. And he's waiting: coiled energy, tamer, perhaps, than earlier, but still waiting on the response. Akaashi's heart pounds. He decides it's the coffee. He opens his mouth.

"Be honest, Akaashi. Were you worried?"

The words 'no comment' die on the way to his lips, and his mouth hangs open. The tone lodges the words in his throat, and he hasn't been this jarred since two days ago (the last time Bokuto caught him off guard). Akaashi relents with a sigh, shifting the coffee to one hand to rub the back of his neck (a habit he did _not_ pick up off Bokuto). Bokuto eases back, freeing up the space between them again. It's harder, but easier, to breathe.

"I was worried." And then he drinks coffee, to hide the worry, the crease in his eyebrows and the slowing of his heart rate (and he still blames the coffee for that - blaming anything else is dangerously close to admitting something he doesn't want brought up). "I would like to think I wouldn't miss something that important for you."

"Aww, Akaashi!! That's really sweet." The charming smile this time as he flops back against the couch. "It's for up and coming photographers. I won it a few years back, 'cause I'm awesome, and they want me to come present the award this year. It'll be, like, all business attire, and I'm allowed to bring a guest, and since you bring _me_ everywhere, I think it's only fair you're my first choice!" 

"I already agreed to go, Bokuto," Akaashi says. "You don't have to sell me on it."

"Yeah, but I spent all my time at the gym this morning prepping this, so you're gonna listen to me asking you anyway!" Bokuto huffs. Akaashi hides his smile in the coffee cup. "I had this whole set up planned, where I'd lead up about how fun it'd be for you to stand around looking pretty without knowing anyone, instead of me being the oblivious idiot. And how I'll show you around to network this time, and you'll get grumpy as I talk and pretend you're not frowning, but you are, I can tell, and then I'd smooth it all over by telling you dinner's free and hook you in!" 

"And here I dared ruin it," Akaashi replies. He tugs the blanket corner absently. "How can I ever make it up to you?"

"Come with me," Bokuto says. Akaashi looks, and Bokuto's not looking back, but at his hands, and the number of words he hasn't said this morning are starting to rival the ones he has. Akaashi holds back on the retorts, the 'I already agreed's and the 'Really, Bokuto's that threaten his mind. He places the near empty mug on the floor. He slides himself over and over until he falls the final few inches against Bokuto's shoulder. 

It's a stupid thing to do. He must be more tired than he thought.

"Of course, Bokuto," he says. "I'll go anywhere with you."

He feels Bokuto's smile in the way he lifts his arm and lets Akaashi tuck himself in as close as he dares.

-

One week later, Akaashi steps out of the cab, Bokuto at his shoulder, and a group of unfamiliar photographers in front of him.

It's nothing unusual for Akaashi: Kuroo takes him to networking events to meet clients, and he often attends them for the companies he's contracted to model for. Being surrounded by unfamiliar faces is common for him, and his small talk and networking skills are quite good. It doesn't hurt to be a model, either. It's easy to get attention with perfect posture and fitted clothing.

But he's no Bokuto Koutarou. 

Bokuto floats from person to person as they enter, introducing Akaashi with ease (this is the model he's on contract with. Isn't he amazing? Have you seen the billboard? Don't sell yourself short, Akaashi, you're famous!) Everyone is addressed by name, everyone's work is mentioned in detail. And everyone they meet knows him, too. He ducks between groups, a glass of wine, untouched, in his hand. Loud but not obnoxious, playful, just on the edge of overstepping himself.

After twenty minutes, Akaashi hangs back to observe. Bokuto's smile, contagious, counteracts the setting sun - the new source of natural light as the windows melt to black. He throws back his head to laugh, and from the angle, it's at his own joke, but no one seems to mind. A short, younger man with orange hair laughs so hard he snorts, and Bokuto claps him on the back.

"He's lively tonight, isn't he?"

Akaashi stiffens. He hadn't realized someone was there. A man approaches, black hair cropped close, orange tie vibrant against his black suit. He's easily older than Akaashi, but not by much. His smile is small, warm, and Akaashi doesn't trust it. He gives a nod as he comes to a stop.

"My name's Daichi. I worked with Bokuto on a project mapping Tokyo at daybreak. You're Akaashi, right?"

"Ah. Yes. It's nice to meet you." He gives a nod in return, shifting on his feet. "I've seen those photos. You're very good."

"It was a good project. Working with Bokuto pushes you pretty hard." Daichi pauses, searching for words. Akaashi keeps his expression pleasant. "I don't mean keep you long, but... I wanted to meet the man who got Bokuto out of his creative rut. We've all been watching for the photos as they're released, and they're stunning. I think you're the only person who can match his intensity. It's nice to see him excited to come to events again."

"I wouldn't want to claim I was the cause. My manager, Kuroo, is the one who got him into the contract. I'm just the model." 

Daichi shakes his head. "I doubt you've ever been 'just' anything in your life, Akaashi. You know, we've been trying to get him to come out again for a year, and in the three months since he started working with you, he's gone out with you, what, five times? Six? This is his first time accepting something from us, and you're still here. Suspicious, hm?"

Akaashi stands, stiff, stunned into silence. Something in his guts makes his hands twitch. He didn't know Bokuto had been turning down invitations. He didn't know Bokuto only went out because _he'd_ asked. The biggest, hardest, worst revelation in Daichi's words is that, despite his ignorance, others knew. And noticed them. And if they noticed it, they'd notice more, and - deep breath. Poise. Practice. Control. He's a professional, and he's at work.

"You're mistaken. It isn't like that. He's my coworker," Akaashi replies, and he keeps his voice calm. Steely, but calm. He shoves the thoughts threatening to show on his face to the back of his mind. 

"I was hardly trying to imply he was anything but. I just mean you should take credit where it's due, Akaashi," Daichi says, his eyes implying everything his claims he doesn't. His voice drops, a whisper, a secret coming to light. "You're more important to him than you think."

Akaashi abandons professionalism and turns his full stare on Daichi. Unforgiving. Cold. He isn't angry (it's definitely not anger burning red in his cheeks and neck and ears), but this stranger needs to know he doesn't appreciate hearing any comment on their relationship (they don't even _have_ a relationship), especially at a formal event, when he's got nowhere to go and no way to defend himself without causing a scene. 

Daichi barely reacts, a half shrug and a short laugh the only acknowledgement of the look. He's said it on purpose. Akaashi doesn't relent. He looks through Daichi, into the time he spent with Bokuto, into their half-mentioned friendship, into the views of Tokyo from the top of sky rises at the dawn of time. He tries to look into the declined invitations, the murky past he hadn't thought Bokuto possessed, into Bokuto showing up for the first time at an event at Akaashi's call.

Daichi faces forward, gives a wave, and the moment's gone. Bokuto's coming back. Akaashi reels in his expression, his thoughts, from back in a time he could never experience. He doesn't want Bokuto to ask what prompted it. He hopes Bokuto doesn't see him blush. 

-

It doesn't help they're sitting at the same table as Daichi. At least he'll get to practice his neutral expressions. 

It's a small table, for the speakers and their guests: Bokuto and Akaashi, Daichi, who will be introducing Bokuto, and his guest, Sugawara - a silver haired man with a quick smile and mischievous eyes. Finally, the MC, Takeda, middle aged with thin-rimmed glasses. Takeda is determined, in a quiet way, and stands on the stage delivering a speech Akaashi finds himself unable to focus on.

Instead, he focuses on Bokuto, and hopes Daichi doesn't notice. 

Bokuto, eyes dark gold in the low light, taking in Takeda's words, and the stage, and the applause like they're a brand new experience. Bokuto, back straight with attention, fingers still with concentration. Anticipation. The expression before he flips through his photos, before he shifts the camera angle to the right spot. It's calming. Centering. 

Daichi stands, and the movement draws Akaashi's gaze, but not his head, to the side. For a second, their eyes meet, green to black. Daichi winks. Akaashi glares, his narrow field of vision following Daichi up onto the stage. He doesn't hear the speech as Daichi talks at the microphone. He hears the same phrase, on repeat, ringing loud in his ears.

_You're more important to him than you think._

"Akaashi, you okay?" Bokuto's whisper cuts in. Akaashi looks back and nods. "Something happen? We can talk later if you want."

"Bokuto-" Akaashi starts, but Daichi calls his name, and that, Akaashi hears. He gives the back of Bokuto's chair a small push with a shake of his head. "It's time, Bokuto. Let's hear your speech."

Bokuto hesitates, so Akaashi breaks out a smile (a real smile, and he can't believe he's giving it so easily, and his mind screams at him that it's a bad idea) and that's all it takes to get him moving up the stage. 

-

"Thank you for the introduction, Daichi, and thank you Takeda for trusting me to deliver a speech _and_ announce the winner," Bokuto starts with flare and a huge grin across his face that spreads to the crowd, as Daichi slides back into his seat at the table. He leans on the podium like he owns it, like he was born to public speak instead of stand behind a camera. The harsh lights tangle in the whites of his hair and eyes. Akaashi watches, eyes following the movements of Bokuto's hands as he speaks.

"Five years ago, I was freelancing photography as a side job to pay off my student debts. Four years ago, I was on this stage, receiving the award that one of our lucky nominees will walk away with tonight - and I used the award money to finish paying off my student debts. But this award did so much more for me than just free me from debt. The people in the room with me became my peers, supporters, mentors - just like the people around you will become for you. Their help launched me from freelancing nobody, to up and coming photographer, to being an internationally known photographer. Network. Make connections. You'll be surprised who can help you, and who'll remember you, even if you don't win tonight.

"Now, I was asked to talk to you newcomers - and the rest of you, to a lesser extent - about what I think the most important part of photography is. A year ago, I would've told you, in a heartbeat, that it was risk. That I achieved nothing without risk. Risking my career, risking my equipment, risking my own neck, for the perfect shot. Looking at my work, it paid off, professionally: some of those shots are stunning, unachievable, without risking it all."

Bokuto scans the crowd, the faces, one table at a time. The careful, calculating observation. Akaashi isn't startled, or remotely surprised, when Bokuto looks directly at him as well. 

That changes when Bokuto doesn't look away. 

The gaze is long, too long, the seconds of silence a weight on Akaashi's shoulders. Eyes in the crowd turn to look where Bokuto looks. The pressure of their thoughts, their assumptions, pressing against the neutral face he's kept up so far. Digging for a reason Bokuto's watching him. For the secret. 

Akaashi breaks eye contact first, rubbing palms against his legs. On stage, he hears Bokuto clear his throat.

"But risk isn't the answer. Years of only risk landed me in a stale, disappointed, depressive loop, unsatisfied with anything I did. It wasn't enough. If I wasn't in danger, what was the point of shooting? But when I _was_ in danger, wasn't it something I had already done before? I couldn't think of a way to push myself, to keep growing, when I'd already done it all. It almost ended my career.

"Almost." 

The eyes are on him again. Akaashi can feel them, a prickle on the back of his neck, a heat wave from the stage, where Bokuto stares, a cold front beside him, from Daichi's dark gaze. Akaashi can't look at any of them. His eyes unfocus on the spot on the wall he's been drilling into. Something wells in his guts (and he thinks it's dread, but it's not low or heavy enough to really call dread, but he doesn't want to call it fear, so dread it remains.)

"As I hope you all know, as I spent all evening talking about it-" a laugh from the audience, "-I've started shooting on contract with a model. On the very first day we shot together, I fell out of a tree trying to get the riskiest shot, and he ended up having to take me to the hospital. He said a lot of things that I don't think I should _ever_ repeat, and I deserved every one of them. But there's one thing he said that really stuck with me." 

Akaashi can't stop the "oh God" that comes from his mouth. Daichi turns his head this time, fully to the side, and Akaashi tries not to look there, tries not to see his expression, the 'I told you so' hovering in the air across the table. He covers his mouth, fighting for the control years and years of practice had buried in his muscles. 

It's impossible to find, and he stares at Bokuto, completely against his will.

"He asked what I cared about more: bragging about what I thought being a good photographer involved, or actually _being_ a good photographer. I'd never thought of it that way before, which really proves how far I was from being good. It never occurred to me that stunts could only get me so far. That actually being dedicated to your craft, not just wanting to show off, is what makes someone truly great. That's what I learned, and that's what I want you all to remember as you go forwards: dedication. Don't do something just to brag about it. Do something because it'll force you to improve. Do something because you love lining up a shot, you love making a scene beautiful, you love showing the best angle of the talent you're working with. Surround yourself with people who push you out of your funks. Don't be afraid to learn - from anywhere, and anyone. Learning is what got me here today - and I got to learn it from someone with so much dedication to his craft I couldn't help but be awed by him. Newfound dedication, and the chance to work with someone so talented, will be the reason I continue to see all of you in the community."

Akaashi doesn't fully hear the round of applause that follows. His ears are stuffed with Bokuto's speech. His eye twitches under the effort to remain calm. There's a rush of emotions, in his chest, in his heart, and he doesn't dare stop to untangle them (because it's fear, it's definitely fear, bubbling through, and the secret screaming like a beacon on his back). The struggle pounds his lungs and bones. His eyes watch every shift in Bokuto's expression: happy, ecstatic, smug, euphoric on the applause that won't cease. 

Akaashi Keiji finds himself grossly unprepared to face Bokuto Koutarou for the very first time in his life.

Around him, the awards ceremony continues. Bokuto announces the small, orange haired boy from earlier, Hinata, the winner. Congratulations abound. Daichi and Takeda go back on stage for a photoshoot, handing over the envelopes, patting Hinata's shoulder as he almost cries. Akaashi finds himself on autopilot, clapping, but not emoting, seeing, but not looking, hearing, but not listening, as Takeda announces that dinner will be served.

-

The night passes in waves, blurred and unfocused. Akaashi remembers eating in the most basic sense: only the motions stick in his memory. He remembers making small talk with Takeda and Sugawara, but not Daichi. Not Bokuto.

He is very good at avoiding Bokuto.

They stand together after the meal, but Akaashi doesn't let him within a foot, turning away when Bokuto tries to lean in to speak. He avoids contact, forcefully, keeping track of Bokuto from only the corners of his eyes. It's not subtle, but Akaashi can't pull himself together enough to be subtle. If he's honest, he can't pull himself together at all.

There's a small shaking in his hands, a bit too much expression on his face. His looks are too sharp, too unguarded - a fact he discovers shaking Hinata's hand and seeing the boy nearly faint dead away under his gaze (and he tries to relax his expression after that, but it's hard to do that and avoid Bokuto). It's only conditioning that keeps his words polite, his demeanor calm. He's a professional, at a professional event, and he is damn well not going to make a scene if it kills him.

The speech bothered him. Daichi's words, his expressions, the glances he still gives at the two of them, bother him. It's one thing to have to hear, from someone in Bokuto's murky past, that Akaashi, too obviously, has a positive influence over him (and all the other things implied, but not said, by Daichi's grins and shrugs and nods). It's another thing entirely for Bokuto to get up and practically announce it to a huge collection of his peers, in no uncertain terms.

_You're more important to him than you think._

He doesn't want to be, and he isn't going to confront any of that here, among people he barely knows. Instead of melting down, he waits, endless patience, holding the same pose for ten minutes at a time. Finally, when Bokuto turns away to say a round of goodbyes, Akaashi sneaks to the door. 

He makes it two steps outside the building before he hears the running. A hand clamps down over his wrist, shoulder slamming into shoulder. Akaashi grunts. He whips his head around, glaring, looking with all the intensity an evening of embarrassment and discomfort and the impending loss of more things than he can name. Bokuto meets it, unflinching, impenetrable. 

Daichi's right about one thing. No one else has a hope in hell of matching their intensity. 

"We need to talk," Bokuto says, "and I will pick you up and carry you somewhere if you say no, because you're clearly about to explode with your stubborn...ness about not talking. You have something you need to say. Right now. Let's go."

"So you're going to kidnap me if I say no," Akaashi retorts. The remark makes Bokuto hesitate, his grip loosening. Akaashi tugs his hand, twists. He doesn't quite make it free before Bokuto closes his grip again, nails digging into palm. 

"Okay, look, I am not going to kidnap you, please don't say that so loudly, someone is definitely going to think I could. You've been avoiding me and I think I know why, and you look ready to kill me, so we _have_ to talk about it."

"I-"

Akaashi swallows the rest of his words as Bokuto takes two long strides forwards, dragging him along. There's no point resisting. Bokuto is taller, stronger, and definitely in possession of more 'stubbornness', as he so eloquently phrased it. Akaashi tumbles to keep up. A block further, Bokuto tugs him into a small alley, lit by the neons and yellows of the lights around them.

"This kind of feels like kidnapping," Akaashi notes. Bokuto groans, his frustration palpable as he balls a fist against his forehead. Maybe if he's annoyed enough, he'll call this off. Bokuto drops his hand from his forehead and stares, eyes steady, serious. Maybe not.

"Talk." A demand. Akaashi meets his gaze again, even. He squares his shoulders, draws himself as tall as he can, jutting his chin out. If Bokuto wants to talk, he's going to talk.

He just hopes Bokuto doesn't regret it.

"What the _fuck_ were you thinking in there?!" He speaks low, quiet, spitting venom. Bokuto drops his wrist and takes an involuntary step backwards. "Oh, don't think of backing out now. You wanted to talk about it this instant? Here you go. What the hell was that speech? What were you thinking? Do you have any idea what it was like for me listening to that?"

"I did nothing but praise you!"

"That's my problem, Bokuto! What the hell possessed you to go up there and talk about me?!"

A car horn blares in the street beside them, making them both flinch. Bokuto recovers first. 

"So, what, you don't want me to say nice things about you?" Bokuto's voice rises, thick with confusion. His head cocks to the side, but his eyes blaze. "I praise you all the time at work and you don't care!"

"That's completely different, that's why. That's work. This isn't."

Bokuto shakes his head. He sighs, air through teeth, eyebrows lowering. "That's not just work, and you know it."

"It's work _related_!"

"The reason I said all those things is because they're true! I was asked to talk about what mattered most to me as a photographer and what I've learned, and the most important things I've learned from you, and what matters most is..." Bokuto cuts himself off with a quick frown. He takes a step forwards, and Akaashi finds himself moving back. The wall stops his progress after three steps. He runs a hand on the surface, the rough brick biting his fingers. "And I thought it'd be a nice surprise, as a thank you for everything you did to help me, and I had no idea you'd see this differently than everything I've said before! I thought you were upset about not knowing about my fallout, but it's some weird... compliment thing? If you want an apology, you have to be more-"

"I'm not your boyfriend, Bokuto!" 

Bokuto visibly stiffens. His mouth hangs half open. His hands, paused, half-clenched in his slicked hair. His expression is unreadable, eyes dark, shadowed in the night, where the neons don't reach. His tie is crumpled and askew. Akaashi squares his shoulders against the brick, hearing the fabric of his blazer rip, but not feeling it. There's nothing controlled in his glare, in the burning rushing up through his hands, to his heart, to his face. 

Bokuto is frozen in place. Akaashi is an explosion. 

"I'm not that important, I have done _nothing_ so significant as changing your life, we've only known each other for three months, and what you said went way beyond professional congratulations! How was I supposed to take it? With a smile?" His voice is loud, too loud, but he's gone too far, dust and fire and ash in the wind. "I didn't even know you were declining every invitation but my own, and I found out through Daichi! Daichi! Who spent half the night implying we're going out, by the way, and your little speech and your terrible eye contact certainly didn't help any, and you might be fine with that but-"

Hands, large, warm, on his shoulders. Akaashi shrugs, grunts, uses his own hands to shove Bokuto off. His eyes are blazing, stinging, and he forces past the blur of vision to swat the hands a second time. It doesn't last long - his advantage is in surprise, not strength. He drops his head, shoulders up, to keep Bokuto from getting purchase, squeezing his eye shut as his hands descend a third time.

Nothing against his shoulders. Instead, Bokuto cups Akaashi's cheeks, gentle, cradling, thumbs running small circle tracks towards his ears. He lifts Akaashi's head easily (as Akaashi realizes he forgot to resist).

"Look at me, Akaashi," Bokuto breathes. The air grows cold, except for his voice, his hands.

Akaashi looks. He always looks. 

Bokuto is a mess of misplaced clothing, matted hair. His eyelids are tinged purple at the edges with the first signs of exhaustion. His forehead is blotchy in the way it gets when he's been out too long in bright lights. There's an eyelash on his cheek. But his hands are the same as always, between rough and smooth, large, comfortable. Akaashi feels his heart pound, rattling his chest, and he can't look away. 

"I guessed wrong about what was upsetting you. I'm sorry." Bokuto's quiet, too quiet, and Akaashi knows it's just to keep him from yelling again. "We definitely shouldn't have done this here. Will you come back home with me? And we can sort this out there? Properly." 

Akaashi thinks about yelling again anyway. His veins are still full of the sensation: the feeling halfway between embarrassment and anger, an extra weight in his limbs. But Bokuto's eyes are steady, and calm, and despite everything upsetting him, despite _this_ upsetting him, Akaashi falls back into routine, and nods his agreement.

He doesn't resist (intentionally, this time) when Bokuto drops his hands from his face and takes his wrist - with the same gentleness as his quiet words. Bokuto leads him out of the alley and hails a cab, the most natural motion in the world, as Akaashi trails behind him, blood singing, mind racing.

-

Home is, of course, Bokuto's home, and the two don't exchange a word the entire cab ride there. Akaashi keeps his gaze focused in the middle distance, avoiding Bokuto's expressions, and especially his eyes. His face feels hot and his clothes uncomfortable. He shifts his arms, constantly, and finds no reprieve. He doesn't accept when Bokuto offers to take his blazer the moment they walk in the door. He drops it on the floor to avoid the eye contact. 

He hadn't wanted to bring it up. He hadn't ever, _ever_ meant to utter the word 'boyfriend' in front of Bokuto Koutarou. And he certainly hadn't meant to make such a scene. The last time he had had an outburst was three months ago, sitting in a hospital waiting room, rounding on Bokuto, breaking a pen in his hand. Ink staining to the nail bed, anger boiling, the audience of the twenty odd other people in emergency witnessing his explosion of temper. The feeling of ink, cold against his hand, haunts him. He'd regretted yelling then, too.

They're minutes away from addressing the one topic he doesn't want to address, and it's his own damn fault for getting them there.

Bokuto sits on the couch, tie thrown against the window sill, head just far enough to the side for him to be studying a scene. Akaashi wonders what Bokuto considers poetic, frame worthy, about him taking off his shoes at the slowest rate humanly possible, but he doesn't mention it. He's fairly certain he already knows the answer. 

It's the answer he's been avoiding.

It's something about the endless patience and the look Bokuto gives (that echoes between his ears, pouding) that makes him cross to the couch and sit down, instead of cutting his losses and leaving. His shirt prickles against his skin. He still feels warm, even without the ruined blazer. Bokuto's gaze never wavers, but Akaashi doesn't turn (he's been trained not to look directly into the light).

"I'm sorry about my outburst," Akaashi says. His voice mumbles, and he stares down the mess on the floor. He shifts in his spot. "It was uncalled for, and unlike me. I shouldn't have yelled."

"Nah, you're like, perpetually level headed, and overly patient with me. It's no biggie. I'm the one who should be apologizing. I should've warned you... or something. I thought it was a great idea, honestly. Turns out, I am not the best at surprises." His laugh is forced. Akaashi hears him drill his fingers into his knee, then the couch. "But, about what you said-"

"I didn't say anything important. Please forget about it."

"Are you in love with me, Akaashi?"

His body runs cold, his face runs hot. Breath freezes in his lungs, his hands weights on the ends of his arms, numb. Frostbitten. Images flash through his mind: standing beside the stretch of refreshments at the studio, laughing, genuinely, at Bokuto's joke. Bokuto's wide-eyed expression looking in Akaashi's closet the first time. Mornings, waking up, light haloing in the air as Bokuto shifts out of bed to head to the gym. Nights, Bokuto's steady breathing, low words, into Akaashi's hair to get him to sleep. Mere minutes ago, the feeling of hands against his cheeks, the steadying presence, the person he'd always follow. 

Akaashi absolutely cannot be in love with Bokuto. Which, likely, is why he is. He'd hoped Bokuto was too dense to figure it out. But, as a model, he's practiced at lying. He draws in a deep breath as he loosens his limbs and mind and thoughts. Cracking the ice, thawing, twitch by twitch. Back to the present. 

"No." 

"Nope! Wrong," Bokuto replies. He'd been waiting for the denial. "You are. You are super in love with me. And you know what I think? The reason you're upset is _because_ you're in love with me." 

Akaashi grinds his teeth, determined not to look over. Dread (the kind that's actually fear) settles in his guts, and he isn't sure how to keep the accuracy of Bokuto's words out of his expressions. "You have no idea what I'm thinking or feeling, Bokuto. And why did you ask if you were going to be so insistent about already knowing the answer?"

"I know you, and I wanted to give you a chance to talk to me." 

"There's nothing to talk about."

"You agreed to come here to talk after yelling at me, so, yeah, there is something to talk about. Did you really expect me to believe you've been sleeping over and flirting with me just because we're just such great buds? You call posing in my bed and letting me take your photo because you know I think you're damned handsome 'nothing to talk about'?"

"Just drop it," Akaashi's voice is growing lower, quieter, sinking with his stomach. He won't admit it. He can't answer the questions that will follow. "I'm not having this conversation any more. I'm going home."

"I know about your contract, Akaashi."

Akaashi's head whips around, instinct taking over his body. His eyes grow wide, taking in Bokuto's serious expression, his gaze that won't leave Akaashi's face. Steady, sharp, the undercurrent of brutal honesty Bokuto exudes when he says something tactless. He draws a hand up, and Akaashi wilts backwards. Bokuto drops it back in his lap. His mind races, the words repeating, echoing, against the secret that's not so secret after all. 

_I know about your contract._

"Why?!" It's the first word that makes it out of his mouth. It's not the best question. He bites his lip. 

"I asked Kuroo, a month ago, if he thought I had a chance with you if I asked you out. He said that I was probably the first person you'd ever fallen madly in love with, and that, regardless, I'd never have a hope in hell, because you're not allowed to date anyone under your modeling contract."

"You _knew?!_ "

"For a month," Bokuto begins to pick nonexistent dirt out from under his nails. A nervous habit. Akaashi finds himself half off the couch with no memory of standing. He sinks back down, head falling into his hands, nails digging into the edge of his hairline, where he knows the dents won't show. 

"I..." Akaashi's mind draws blank, the former-secret a throbbing pulse behind his eyes. "I... don't know what to say."

"I know. Will you hear me out for a minute?" Akaashi nods into his hands. "Thanks, Akaashi. When I hauled you out there, I thought you were upset I hadn't mentioned my total washout and you were just hearing about it then. But, I'm guessing Daichi talking about us dating got you anxious, and me talking like I love you on stage, cause, yeah, I kinda do, probably didn't help much." He gives a breathy laugh. Akaashi feels his chest rattle in reply. He buries his face in closer to his hands to avoid it showing. "Honestly? I figured you were okay with our weird relationship, and I didn't ever plan on properly asking you out, if that makes you feel better. I didn't want to make you have to say no, and I wasn't going to make you lose your job to say yes."

Bokuto waits there as Akaashi takes a deep breath. He rests his head in his hands for a moment longer, before the slow, painful draw of his body upright. He blinks in the light, squints, and can hear the echoes of Bokuto asking if he does this on purpose. He shakes his head clear to avoid the sensation of falling that keeps coming over him. 

"I just... thought maybe if I didn't bring it up, I could pretend you didn't like me, and I didn't like you, and I wouldn't have to deal with the fact I can't be with anyone and we could still... I don't know. Be close." Akaashi threads his fingers together, arching and unarching. Calm. Focused. Finding his center. "I didn't think anyone else would bring it up, because I had no idea it was... or you were... that I was special to you. Like, in an obvious way. And you're right. It does upset me. I don't want to be in love with you, Bokuto."

"Harsh," Bokuto clicks his tongue, and Akaashi rolls his head to the side to give him a look he isn't sure he feels. Bokuto's grinning, a real grin, to prove he's teasing. "Don't give me that look. Just lightening the mood. It's my job to cheer you up."

Akaashi doesn't address the interruption, but he does stop glaring. "It's been nagging at me for a while, and even if rumours start, I could lose my job. Tonight was a giant neon sign pointing at us, and if Daichi knows, someone else in that room knows. I like my job, Bokuto. But I also like you, and us, and I figured any discussions would ruin that, and it's stressful, and-"

"Hey, shh. Deep breath." Akaashi takes one. Bokuto smiles. "Y'know, I don't exactly have any complaints about what we are to each other. We don't have to date, properly, or anything. We can be two, mature, grown adults, who happen to be madly in love and are tragically torn apart by circumstance." 

Akaashi shakes his head. "This isn't a joke, Bokuto. We can both lose our jobs, and it's my fault if we do."

"If it's anyone's fault, it's mine, for keeping things from you and announcing to a room full of my peers about how highly I value you, on a night when Daichi decides it's his job to meddle in my love life," Bokuto's grin borders, then falls straight into mischievous, and he leans in close. "But besides Daichi, and my stupid mistake, and you yelling for half the world in an alley, no one's said anything. Not even a warning from Kuroo, and he'd be on us quickly if he thought we were taking it too far, right?"

"...I suppose. But I want to be careful. _More_ careful."

"We can be more careful then, if that's what you're comfortable with. You could sleep over less, for starters, and I'll stop running my mouth every time I open it. And get less nosy friends. And we don't have to do anything else. Except... for one thing."

"What?" Akaashi catches the tone easily, and it makes his eyes narrow. A hand cups his cheek, a laugh in his ear. He isn't an idiot, and the sigh he lets out is far more resigned (and maybe a little more hopeful) than he intended. "Bokuto, really?"

"Just one," Bokuto whispers. Akaashi rolls his eyes, but he knows Bokuto can read him well enough he doesn't have to say anything. With the confirmation, Bokuto takes away the final half-inch between them. 

Being kissed is not the ending of the night Akaashi expected, and, while welcome, the first thought that flashes through his mind is how neither of them have brushed their teeth since they got back from dinner. His mouth tingles, his head clouds, his eyes close, he lets himself lean in. Bokuto's smile spreads into the kiss. He reaches his hands out and digs them into Bokuto's shirt, clenching, tugging. Akaashi lets his mind go blank and forgets everything but the sensation of being kissed.

Bokuto pulls back, but not far, definitely not far enough. His breath is hot on Akaashi's face, and it smells, and he should pull back further. Much further. But they both hover, linger, and Bokuto kisses him once more on the nose before leaning back with a short laugh, drawing his hand away. He doesn't get far, and he glances down, and Akaashi untangles his fingers from Bokuto's shirt.

He's blushing. But at least Bokuto is, too.

"You're not allowed to do that ever again," Akaashi says. He rubs a palm on his leg, then covers his mouth, just in case. "You shouldn't have done it this time."

"I know," Bokuto says. He falls back, heavy, against the couch, eyes closing. His breath is steady. "I won't do it again. I did say it was just one thing."

Akaashi watches, and when it's clear Bokuto's not going to get up, he lowers his hand to his side. He studies Bokuto's face: the faint red across his cheeks, the dark circles forming under his eyes, the slight turn down of the corners of his mouth. The steady rise and fall of his chest. Silence. He must be tired - exhaustion Akaashi feels seeping into his own limbs as well. He tucks his knees to his chest and rests his head on them.

"You're tired, Bokuto. Go get ready for bed."

"But-" Eyes open, leaning forwards, snapping to attention. Akaashi silences him with a look.

"We can talk more tomorrow. We'll probably spend the next few days talking. For now, we've both had a stressful night, and it's showing. You don't have to force yourself to stay awake."

"I'm not forcing myself," Bokuto yawns. Akaashi raises an eyebrow. Waits. Bokuto takes another moment, then stands, fluid, hands on his hips as he straightens his back. One moves to unbutton his shirt, the other reaches to ruffle Akaashi's curls. "Okay, okay. You win. If you think I'm tired, I must look terrible. I'm gonna shower before bed. I'll see you there?"

"What happened to less sleepovers?" Akaashi tilts his head, adjusts the angle. He smirks. There's little light to catch, but he tries his best.

"Hey, unfair. I want you looking as awful as I do." Bokuto whines, as if he could somehow look awful taking off his shirt in peak physical condition. Akaashi gives a short laugh. Bokuto shakes his head, but winks. "I'll see you there, then."

His feet pad across the room. Akaashi uncurls himself, leaning back against the couch, head turning to follow. Bokuto's movements are slow and deliberate. Familiar, as even at lowest possible speed, Bokuto still misses the corner, muscle jarring into wall, slipping from light to dark. He disappears, and with him goes the air, the warmth, of the room. 

The word comes out before he can stop it. "Bokuto?"

"Yeah?" The voice distant, halfway to the bedroom.

"My contract... it does expire. Fifteen months." A deep breath. "You will wait for me, won't you?"

He keeps his eyes trained on the empty spot in the hall, staring down the months, the year, looming between them, and now that it's clear and in the air and there's no turning back, it's scary. Overwhelming. A secret was one thing, but a promise is something else entirely. Something Akaashi isn't sure he's ready for, tonight, and he thinks about snatching the words out of the air. 

But Bokuto is Bokuto, and he makes the gaps of years seem like nothing as he peeks back, head just around the corner, the tired smile reaching his eyes. 

It's the easiest thing in the world to love him.

"Of course, Akaashi," he says. "I'll go anywhere with you."


End file.
